A Young Man's Fancy
by demoness-sweet
Summary: It's a lovely spring day, and Brian is being an oaf. Features Older!Wensleydale and Brian, a library abduction and an ice-cream debut. SLASH Brian/Wensleydale
1. Pansy Boy

A/N: Sorry, I can't help it, I adore Wensleydale in all his stuffy and lovely glory. What can I say? I love Percy Weasley too. It's the glasses I tell you.   
  
  
  
Disclaimers: Me would likey if PTerry and GNeil would donate, but have have no word from the two of them. Tried calling/mailing again, seems like unlisted phone numbers and addresses have been put to effect. Me pout.   
  
  
  
Warnings: slash as in Wensleydale/Brian.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Pansy   
  
  
  
  
  
Wensleydale was a pansy, Brian decided long ago. The perfectly parted ash-blond hair, the glasses set just so. Sometimes he just wanted to punch Wensleydale when his mother complained that he was too messy or too loud or just too Brian and tried to set Wensleydale as an example.   
  
It wasn't his fault that he grew up big and loud and messy, it was just the way he turned out, dark brown hair spiky and forever tousled, always with a streak of something across his face. And secretly, Brian was convinced that he had turned out better than Wensleydale. But even more secretly, Brian was a bit jealous of him.   
  
**************  
  
When Brian saw Wensleydale ten years later, sitting like he always did, back perfectly straight, he strolled over and just looked. Still a pansy, he decided, the hair was still perfect, the collar was still spotless, and even the loss of the glasses didn't help much.   
  
And so Brian sat down and whispered "Boo" just for fun. And Wensleydale had jumped, perfectly straight and nearly smashed his face in with the large book he had been reading. And predictably, Wensleydale-like, stood red faced, hands on his hips, mouth pursed and eyes sparkling. Brian had grinned and proclaimed that he was kidnapping Wensleydale for lunch. Like a train he barged out of the library, Wensleydale pink with embarrasement and the girls at the front desk giggling at them.   
  
They stopped when Wensleydale had dug in his heels and refused to be dragged anywhere like a common convict. A common convict, Brian thought, still grinning foolishly, only Wensleydale would ever use that phrase when what he really meant was a crook. So instead of going to eat at a crowded pub, they strolled in the park, and Brian bought ice cream.   
  
And as Wensleydale sat on the bench, smiling with perfect teeth and dancing hazel eyes, looking up at him with something that made Brian feel all warm inside, he decided that if Wensleydale was a pansy, then he was HIS pansy.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Awwww, fluff *sparkles* took a break from horror and despair. R&R will be greeted with proposals of marriage and life-long devotion. 


	2. Logic is Overrated

Wensleydale was enjoying himself inside the library. It was cool and quiet and the librarians didn't all have dripping maws full of teeth the size of hunting knives. But most of all he liked the books. There was something about all the knowledge there-something dusty but powerful and addictive too.   
  
To a point, of course.   
  
That point being when an unmannered oaf crept up behind him and whispered "boo" in a voice that was infuriatingly deep and rich. And just...infuriating. Not to mention childish and puerile and simply unmannered. Of course he'd jumped. He had to make the poor bugger feel better, the way he had nothing to do but sneak up on innocent victims selected in an illogical and purely slap-dash pattern.   
  
Well, that was before he'd turned around and seen, well, seen a wide chest in a sports jersey. No face there.   
  
So he'd looked up, and up, and up.   
  
Good Lord Almighty. That was Brian...and not. Last time he'd remembered, Brian was barely taller than him and grubby and round and simply indistiguishable without his dirt. Wensleydale remembered times when he, Wensleydale, in all of his spectacled glory had managed to pin Brian down and make him scream uncle. The ribs were a major weakness.   
  
But regarding the odds that faced him at this point, Wensleydale would calculate that the odds of him winning were somewhere between one in thirteen thousand-seven hundred-and-nine and negative five-eighths. It seemed that not only had Brian shot up (like Wensleydale) he'd also managed to gain an impressive amount of muscle tissue (unlik Wensleydale.) It was very aggravating.   
  
That was before he'd gotten a good look at Brian's face, and aggravated became...well, impressed and aggravated. The child-curves had flattened and firmed to strong lines and planes with intriguing angle measurements, and the mouth was something Wensleydale didn't want to dwell on too much to prevent...opportunities for due loss of face. But the eyes were still Brian's, dark brown with hints of tawny gold and entirely too much laughter for Wensleydale's peace of mind.   
  
And then the oaf had just grabbed him and manhandled him out of the library. The nerve of that man! And Wensleydale refused to admit to himself how nice it felt with Brian's larger hand around his wrist, warm and strong and...  
  
(It might be prudent to remark that Wensleydale's subconcious, after a long and painful debate lasting eleven minutes with itself, had eschewed conversation with Wensleydale's logic, and loaned an impressive armoury of saucepans and blunt objects from Pepper. It was losing too much.)   
  
And when they'd sat down on a park bench, after Brian had manipulated the vendor into handing him the cost of the ice-cream, Wensleydale had thought long and hard. Rather predictably, he had begun to get a headache, much the same as if someone had hit him over the head with a twenty-two-centimetre (in diameter) pot, stainless steel. Perhaps it was this that caused the momentary lapse of logic and rational thinking, in which Wensleydale leaned over and licked off that very distracting bit of chocolate ice-cream from the corner of that even more distracting mouth.   
  
Then Brian turned his head and made that inquisive touch something very different altogether.   
  
Dear me, Wensleydale thought later, dazed and bewildered and very happy, perhaps a momentary lapse of logic is quite beneficial in some instances. Inquiries must be made about other condiments pertaining to the sense of taste.   
  
Somewhere a little voice cheered. 


End file.
